


Love is a Fickle Thing

by AK_Qhyrstol



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale/Crowley First Kiss (Good Omens), Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Romance, Song: Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:28:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25366846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AK_Qhyrstol/pseuds/AK_Qhyrstol
Summary: After the armageddon-that-didn't-happen, Aziraphale and Crowley reconvene in the old bookshop for a glass of wine.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 52





	Love is a Fickle Thing

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason I was in a romantic mood and this happened. (For ultimate sap, listen to "Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy" by Queen.)  
> Warning: Mild language, but there's only a little of it.

_“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose / By any other name would smell as sweet.”_

_(_ Romeo and Juliet _by William Shakespeare, Act II Scene II)_

* * *

Love is a fickle thing.

Sometimes it takes no more than one meeting or one glance to blossom. Sometimes it takes knowing the person intimately first. Sometimes it takes longer than decades, ageing like fine wine.

On rare occasions, it takes 6000 years to bloom unto itself, young and hesitant, but beautiful and bright. A flower so delicate, petals soft and so easily damaged, forming rings upon rings and spreading like the sun and reaching for the sky. It is a rare kind of love, one that doesn’t show itself very often in our world, but once in a while… it does.

It’s a magnificent thing. A thing to be cherished. A love like that is so hard to come by, takes so much effort to get to, takes going through the harsh winters and endless summers. It takes going miles to meet each other halfway, but it’s worth it. It’s worth waiting for. 

And here it was, beginning to blossom inside a bookshop in SoHo, London. Blossoming surrounded by wine bottles and soft, yellow light. By bookshelves packed to the brim, by delicious baked goods from the good bakery around the corner. By tender music and by cushy couches and armchairs.

Aziraphale smiled contently, lightly holding his wine glass in hand. He turned to Crowley, next to him for the first time on this sofa and so close, closer than before. Close enough to touch. Crowley turned his head towards him automatically, his golden serpent eyes shining so near. He’d taken off his glasses, comfortable to express himself freely with the angel. 

“Well, that went down like a lead balloon,” Crowley muttered quietly and Aziraphale barely caught it, but caught it he did, snatching it before it could disappear into the world, and the familiar words made him smile brighter.

“Did it?” Aziraphale asked, leaning just that bit closer, “I think it went rather well, all things considered.” 

“I wasn’ talking about the armageddon-that-didn’t-happen.” Crowley got the familiar look on his face when he was trying to figure something out. “Armage-don’t?” 

“Then what did you mean?” Aziraphale inquired easily, taking another sip of wine. 

“My views on the angels. I knew they were poin’less bastards, Zira, but they didn’ even give you a trial! Jus’ said, ‘Yes, here you go, some nice hellfire, go die already’. Who th’ fuck does tha’?” Crowley slurred his words together a little, but there was still clear incredulity and a little anger in his words.

Aziraphale’s smile saddened a little. “It’s alright, Crowley, I wouldn’t expect anything more from them.”

Crowley made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “Damn right you shouldn’! Fuck ‘em, anyway, you don’ need ‘em.”

“Because I have you?” Aziraphale muttered into his wine but paused when Crowley went deathly silent. 

Worried, Aziraphale looked over to the demon to see him already staring straight at him. When Aziraphale had turned, their arms brushed just a little, and Crowley was giving him that intent look he sometimes did when they were together.

Well, a lot of the time when they were together.

“You’ll always have me, angel,” Crowley said clearly, not stumbling on a single word. Aziraphale flushed at the sincerity in his tone (and also, perchance, from the alcohol), but his lips curved up again into his usual fond smile. Maybe with a hint of something else, but we’ll never know. 

“The sentiment is mutual, my dear,” Aziraphale said, softly to not ruin the moment they were sharing.

At that moment, Aziraphale made the mistake of catching full eye contact with Crowley and he was instantly captured and locked into it. Entranced, Aziraphale raised his glass for a toast and Crowley followed, their glasses clinking before they swallowed the rest of their wine. 

Crowley gently grabbed the angel’s glass, leaning over and placing them both on the table to pour more. 

Aziraphale stared at the black snake that slithered before the curves of his ear, the slope of his neck that was highlighted by the candlelight, and suddenly didn’t care anymore. He didn’t care about what the angels thought of him, what the demons thought, what _God_ thought - he only cared about Crowley. Nothing else mattered. Nobody else mattered.

Maybe that’s what he would tell Crowley later on when he would ask him: ‘Why did you grab my hand that night?’ 

Maybe he would say, ‘Because it felt right, my dear’ or ‘Everything else was so wrong, but you were there all the same.’ Maybe both.

But it didn’t change the fact that Aziraphale took the first step when he trailed his fingertips down Crowley’s right arm (the one not holding the wine bottle) until they reached the skin of his palm. Until his thicker, calloused fingers were entwining hesitantly with slender ones, holding on tightly. 

Crowley nearly dropped the bottle, staring down between them. He looked inquiringly up at Aziraphale, a spark of _something_ in his eyes, and Aziraphale knew one look could make or break everything. So he bit his lip nervously and glanced at their hands and stroked Crowley’s skin with his thumb.

Aziraphale had been silently anticipating some sort of rejection, which he would take silently and hope they never spoke of it again, but when Crowley gripped his hand back just as tight, he was relieved. His shoulders slumped with it and he let himself more casually stroke the side of Crowley’s hand, perhaps with a bit more affection than before. 

It was a good thing Aziraphale took the first step that night because Crowley met him halfway when he uttered three words that could mean nothing and everything at the same time. They met each other halfway when they kissed for the first time, making the music change to “Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy” and for all the flowers to bloom within a one-hundred kilometre radius.

Love is a fickle thing, isn’t it?


End file.
